Newspaperman
by Peachdreamsandperseus
Summary: "Whenever she looks to the sky and sees the birds, she thinks of him. She thinks of their stolen moments together in a dusty garage and the adventures they'd had through the words of their favourite writers, but it was that night that they'd shared together that would forever hold the most special place in her heart." - Sybil's world is shattered when Tom is called to war. S2 AU.


_**I'm a little bit obsessed with AUs where Tom does actually go off to war (hence the reason why I'll Be Seeing You is becoming my favourite fic of mine) and I finally saw Disney's Paperman the other day which very very loosely inspired this story (and the title because I completely lack imagination). I managed to illustrate this in that style - those of you who follow me on Tumblr may have seen it. Anyway, enjoy and let me know what you think :) x**_

* * *

**March 1916**

She could sit for hours just watching him with those little scraps of paper. Each fold has to be so precise, right down to the nearest millimetre, but he makes it look so natural - it's the mechanic in him, she supposes. It's a delicate balance between science and art, something which made him laugh when she'd told him as much once.

It's raining outside and there's little else to do around her than to enjoy his company - not that he minds, of course, he adores having her around and even their silences are more stimulating than the conversations either of them will encounter up at the house. Finally, after enough pestering, she finally gets him to teach her how to do it. He tells her how he'd learnt it from his grandfather and he from his father before that - a man who'd brought the skill back home with him after spending time in the Far East with the Navy. It frustrates her at first (much to his amusement, naturally) when she isn't able to figure it out but, many scraps of paper and several curse words later, she's finally made a little row of them all lined up along the work bench in the garage.

One day she'll learn that the Japanese have a word for these little paper sculptures - origami - and that is something quite beautiful in itself.

Sybil picks up one of the birds and grins from ear to ear, incredibly proud of her achievement - of course, she's completely oblivious to the look of utter adoration on his face, just on account of seeing her so happy.

"They're lovely," she says. "Though it's a shame we can't make them fly."

"Not all birds were meant to," he replies. "Though, every now and then, there's one whose wings weren't clipped and they fly higher than any other." He reaches across her then to take the bird from her, his fingers brushing so deliberately across hers as she'd turned to meet his gaze at last. It's the first time she's really noticed that there is so more between them than just a deep rooted friendship. When she was thirteen, her governess had asked her what a young Lady should look for in a husband. Her reply had been "someone who takes me seriously, who makes me laugh and listens to what I have to say. He'll love me and make me proud to be his wife, just as he will be to be my husband." Mary (who was too old for a governess by then but had just happened to be passing by) had laughed and called her a darling whilst Fraulein Helga rolled her eyes and told her to stop being such a romantic and get her head out of the clouds. Tom, she has all of a sudden come to realise, is all that and so much more. He's her best friend and there's no denying that she feels something for him but whether it's love she doesn't know. Even if it was, nothing could ever come of it - there are rules about that sort of thing and, not for the first time, she finds herself cursing the society they've both been brought into.

He smiles at her - that boyish grin that sets her heart racing - and she knows that, even if this is all that's meant to be, she's very lucky to be able to call him her friend.

_**-xxx-**_

**April 1917**

So much has happened since that afternoon in the garage and Sybil would go so far as to say that they've both changed because of it. The most pivotal moment of this past year is undoubtedly York or rather what was said at York. She had realised from the moment he'd left just how heartless she must have sounded to him, but she'd panicked and hadn't known what else to say. Things had been awkward at first but, once they'd both realised that it hadn't been an outright "no" and that there was still some hope, they'd soon fallen back into their old routine.

She strolls down to the garage early one evening, still dressed in her uniform at the end of a shift. Pausing at the door for a moment, she takes in the sight of him looking slightly dishevelled and with his head propped up on his elbow - he looks utterly deflated and she immediately knows there's something wrong. On the workbench in front of him is one of the paper birds and he's pulling at the tail of it, completely lost in his own little world.

"Penny for your thoughts," she says softly, coming up behind him and placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

He sighs wearily and looks up at her with a sad smile. "I got my papers," he says. "I've been called up."

Sybil's jaw drops - she's feared this day for so very long now that she can't remember a time when it wasn't part of her nightmares. "But... I mean... have you been for your medical?"

Tom nods. "I'm fit for active service, apparently."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I was hoping that I could find a way out of it... there wasn't any point in saying anything if there was nothing to worry about."

She can't help but smile at that, genuinely touched by the fact that he'd thought of her when faced with his own mortality. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow."

She can't explain it but, in that very moment, it feels as though her whole world has come crashing down. She's about to ask him something when she's distracted by the paper bird. "Is that made out of..."

"Official documents from the British Army? Yes."

"Oh the anarchy."

They both laugh for what feels like the first time in so very long, committing the sound of it to memory for they know that, after tomorrow, there won't be very much laughter in either of their lives.

"I should go," she says after a moment or two of contemplative silence. "I'll be late for dinner."

"Will you..." he begins, stopping halfway through his sentence when he realises just how stupid his request with. "No... never mind, it doesn't matter."

"No, I will," she replies, somehow knowing just what it is he's asking of her. "Or at least I'll try to."

Tom reaches out to take her hand in his own as she stands and gives it a gentle squeeze. "Thank you," he says.

"For what?"

"Everything."

_**-xxx-**_

She excuses herself early that night, too many thoughts racing through her mind to be able to be of much company. There's so much she wants to say to him but doesn't even know where to begin. She had thought that it would have been something of a nostalgic gesture to write it all down in a note like the ones that had formed the very foundations of their friendship but, as she sits at her vanity, twisting her pen between her fingers and staring at the piece of paper before her, the words just won't come. Some of them will, but more of them have been crossed out than left in and this is much harder than she imagined. Suddenly, a wave of inspiration hits and she carefully sets about folding the paper into one of the birds - it's most definitely her best yet and she's still not finished...

_**-xxx-**_

He's woken from his slumber by a pounding on the front door - there's a sense of urgency to it and, as is something of a second nature to him by now, he springs up out of bed. He's greeted by a very frozen looking Sybil who is somewhat underdressed for such a cold night. Without saying anything, he ushers her inside and closes the door behind them - they've done this before, the two of them alone here, but somehow this feels different.

"What's wrong?" asks Tom, suddenly feeling very concerned at the fact she's staring down at her feet.

"Nothing," she replies rather abruptly. "I'm sorry for waking you up."

He shakes his head. "No matter... I thought you weren't going to come."

"I... I was trying to think of what I'd say once I got here," she admits. "I tried to write it all down but still words couldn't do my feelings justice. I came to give you something instead." Sybil reaches into the pocket of her dressing gown and pulls out the tiny paper bird and places it into his hand. "I made you this... just to take a little piece of me with you."

Tom smiles at the gesture but furrows his brow as he notices something peculiar about it - a red mark that looks strangely like...

"Are you wearing lipstick?" he asks, using his free hand to tilt her chin upwards and get a better look.

Sybil blushes. "I didn't know how else to do what I wanted to do..."

"Where in God's name did you get that?"

"One of my friends in York gave it to me," she replies with a smile. "She always wore it whenever we'd sneak down to the local pub... I was quite envious of her confidence when she wore it and how beautiful she looked. She gave me some of it when I told her so."

"I don't believe you've told me these stories."

"There are things even you don't know about me," she laughs, not giving him time to reply before she's flung her arms around his neck. "Please don't go," she whispers into his ear, inhaling that familiar scent that's so uniquely him.

He can feel her hot tears against his skin and, almost instinctively, his own arms wrap around her waist and pull her so impossibly close to him. "I have to," he replies. "I wish I didn't, but I do."

"But this isn't your fight," she protests. "This isn't your king or country to fight for..."

"I won't be fighting for king and country... I'll be fighting for you. You know that I think this war is wrong but I'll be fighting for you and our children, whether they be with each other or, God forbid, with somebody else. I'll keep fighting so that, one day, I can come back here and make something of myself, just as I said, and prove to the world that a man really can change his stars... it'll be the thought of you that will get me through that. I love you, Sybil, and I am both blessed and honoured to have been able to call you my friend."

She pulls back slightly and meets his eyes at last, tears flowing thick and fast from her own. "It's taken losing you to realise it, but I love you too... I'm certain of it now."

Knowing that there are no other words to be said, both of them lean in as though there's some sort of natural gravity pulling them towards each other, their lips meeting in a kiss that has been long overdue. It isn't long before hands begin to wander, each committing the feel of each other to memory, and he sweeps her up into his arms and carries her towards his bedroom. Neither of them stop to consider whether what they're doing is wrong and, in all honestly how could it ever be - nothing has ever felt more right. He knows that she deserves so much better than this - a rickety bed in a ramshackle cottage somewhere in a forgotten corner of her father's estate - and that she should be worshipped like the goddess she is on sheets of the purest silk and fine Egyptian cotton, but it's so imperfectly perfect that it really doesn't matter.

"I hurt you," he says breathlessly as they come down from their high at long last and sees the fresh tears running down her cheeks.

Sybil shakes her head. "No... no you didn't," she reassures him. "It's just that I've never known anything so wonderful. I love you, Tom, and when you come home I'm going to marry you."

He smiles and twists a lock of ebony hair around his finger. "Is that a yes then?"

"Yes," she replies with a yawn. "Yes it is."

He wakes her just before dawn, the pair of them making love again one last time as the nightingales still sing outside and the first rays of sunlight begin to creep in through the gap in the curtains. Nothing will ever be more perfect than this moment, two kindred spirits entwined in both body and soul as they wordlessly say their final goodbyes...

_**-xxx-**_

**January 1921**

Whenever she looks to the sky and sees the birds, she thinks of him. She thinks of their stolen moments together in a dusty garage and the adventures they'd had through the words of their favourite writers, but it was that night that they'd shared together that would forever hold the most special place in her heart. That night, she'd felt invincible and, for the first time in her life, as if she was finally one complete person. That night had been the last time she'd seen him. There had been letters at first, but then he'd been sent to Belgium and they'd become less frequent - from the things she'd heard elsewhere, she knew that to be nothing unusual and so it hadn't caused her much worry. Then the war had finally ended and still nothing came, until the whispers began to echo around Downton that he was gone and he wasn't coming back - he was dead and her heart had died along with him. In the end, she'd lost count of how many nights she'd cried herself to sleep, unable to properly mourn the only man she would ever be capable of loving. Many months later, she'd finally grown tired of playing the endless games that the aristocracy were so fond of and had made the decision to pursue a full-time nursing career in London - her father had finally given in on the condition that she stayed with her aunt in Belgravia. For weeks, she had been scouring the capital in search of a vacancy and even the many thousands of pigeons remind her of the birds.

Whenever she sees the birds she thinks of him and, as long as she keeps thinking of him, there's a part of him that is still very much alive...

_**-xxx-**_

He can't believe how late he is as he steps off the tube and it doesn't help matters that London is chaos this morning. It's taken so much persuasion for his editor to agree to meet with him to discuss his proposals for a series of articles concerning the current situation in Ireland - articles on the subject in an English paper written by an Irishman were a thing unheard of and he knew that it would pose a risk if he were to get the go-ahead with them. He can't be late for this meeting but, so wrapped up is he in rushing around and reading his notes, he clatters straight into a fellow commuter, almost knocking her to the ground and scattering his papers everywhere.

She looks up at him from under the brim of her peacock blue cloche hat as he mumbles his sincerest apologies - he can't see her eyes properly, but there's something oddly familiar about her smile that ignites a fire in his heart that he hasn't felt for so very long now. He's about to ask if they've met somewhere before but when he looks up again she's gone and the last thing he sees of her is the top of her bright blue hat disappearing down into the bowels of the Tube station.

_**-xxx-**_

She shivers as she makes her way down towards the platform - her heart is racing and she can't fathom why. Her side aches slightly where they'd bumped into each other, but she barely notices it for her mind is otherwise occupied. The way his hair had fallen across his eyes and the lopsided smile he'd given her had reminded her so much of him that it hurts. He'd been rushing around so much that she hadn't really had the chance to get a proper look at him and yet the resemblance had been uncanny.

She knows that it's completely impossible though.

He's dead and he isn't coming back...

Isn't he?

_**-xxx-**_

The hours wear on slowly - ever since the war, he's lost all concept of time altogether. The years he'd spent in that hell have changed him - mentally and physically - and though he rarely talks about it, his experiences have made him more determined than ever to make something of himself. The little paper bird sits on his desk every day as a constant reminder that he's doing this for her - he's heard them whisper behind his back, the ones who never fought who don't understand, saying that it's ridiculous for him to be so attached to it. Then there are those who know what it had been like - they know that a man's mind is never truly whole again and that he takes comfort in the little things. That paper bird has been through hell and high water with him and there's no way he's ever going to let it out of his sight...

But that's a thought that's just tempting fate.

The office had been unusually stuffy given the freezing temperatures outside and he's forgotten that the window was still open. As he pulls on his coat, he knocks the bird out of the window. He lurches forward to try and rescue it but, as a gust of wind catches it, he knows that it's a wasted effort. His little bird has taken flight and he finds himself hoping that the same thing has happened to her.

_**-xxx-**_

Like a child that has misplaced or broken its favourite toy, he feels somewhat saddened by the loss of something so sentimental. Pulling up the collar on his worn old coat, he steps out onto the street only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight before him.

Standing there with an origami bird - **his** origami bird - in her leather clad hand, is her.

The woman in the peacock blue hat.

The love of his life.

"Sybil."

She beams back at him, her smile enough to banish all the bad memories of these past few years and make him feel human again. Tentatively, they step towards one another, neither quite knowing what to say.

"I... I knew it was you," she says eventually. "This morning at the station... I'd scarcely dared to hope that I would ever see you again and so I thought I was seeing things."

Tom laughs nervously. "I thought the same," he says. "But it's really you... you're here."

"I think this belongs to you," she replies, holding out the paper bird. "It fell from the window... I can't believe you still have it."

"I never let it out of my sight."

Sybil takes a moment then to get a good and proper look at him - gone is the boy who crossed the sea to England, gone is the man who befriended her, stole her heart and left for war, and in his place is a soldier who has seen and done atrocious things these past few years. From her time as a nurse she knows that none of them are ever the same once they come back, though she can still see all the love he once felt for her shining bright in those beautiful blue eyes of his.

"Oh, Tom," she sighs. "I've missed you so terribly much."

"And I you, my love, and I you." He takes her hand in his at last, the paper bird clutched firmly between them, and smiles genuinely for the first time in so very long. There are still a thousand and one obstacles left for them to face before they can truly be together but, in this moment, both of them know that they were always meant to be the ones who would fly.


End file.
